


Licked from your palm a rift of salt

by TonightNoPoetryWillServe



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29935308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TonightNoPoetryWillServe/pseuds/TonightNoPoetryWillServe
Summary: Modern day!AU. After CIA spy Tharkay's hands are injured, he takes a vacation to a small Northern island. There he meets Laurence, the park ranger for the island's lighthouse, and his precocious son Temeraire. Their life seems idyllic, and Tharkay quickly becomes attached, but eventually comes to realize that Laurence is hiding something.Title stolen from Adrienne Rich.
Relationships: William Laurence/Tenzing Tharkay
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	1. The Lighthouse

**Author's Note:**

> This idea wouldn't leave me alone! Also I swear I will get back to writing To Belong soon, it hasn't been abandoned!

“You’re taking at least the next month off, and that’s final.” 

The delivery is gentle enough, but Tharkay knows that Roland is entirely serious. The psych board has cleared him, but there’s another problem. He looks down at his ruined hands and tries to think of a cogent argument for why he doesn’t actually need to recover full use of his fingers before going back out into the field. He comes up empty. With a slightly rueful smile he replies, “Understood.”

Roland watches him for a long moment. “You know, you should go somewhere.”

“Go somewhere?”

“Take a vacation.”

Tharkay briefly imagines himself playing at tourist; the image leaves a sour taste in his mouth. “I don’t think so.”

“I have a place, on a small island near Scotland. A little cottage by the sea. It’s quiet, peaceful, windswept beaches and all that. Why don’t you go spend some time there? I promise not to visit.”

It’s an unexpectedly kind offer, and a highly unorthodox one from the CIA spymaster sitting before him. But he can’t find himself entirely surprised by it. Roland is unorthodox, period. She leans back in her chair, regarding him calmly, waiting for his answer. “Very well,” he concedes.

With a grin, she reaches into her desk to pull out a set of keys, and scribbles an address down on the notepad on her paper. He nods and stands to leave.

“The neighbors know me as Susan Walters. Not that I expect you to get to know them.”

“Of course… Thank you.” Only after he leaves does he allow himself to fully consider what she’s gifted him: an astronomical level of trust, in their world. He will be worthy of it.

Back in his hotel room, he quickly taps the address into his encrypted phone and finds that he can get to the island by ferry if he leaves early the next morning. He packs slowly, grimacing at the pain shooting along his abused fingers. _Damn them all to hell._ And now he’s been practically banished to an island so small he’s never even heard of it.

The solitude doesn’t scare him, but the lack of useful occupation does. He isn’t one for sitting idle. But as much as he hates to admit it, Roland is right. He needs a break. Perhaps a short period of inactivity will be acceptable, after all.

***

The cabin is not what he would have expected of Roland. _Cozy_ would perhaps be the right word to describe it, with knit blankets draped across deep, plush chairs, and a fireplace that’s clearly meant to be used. He briefly considers building a fire, but isn’t sure his hands are up to the task.

The location is stunning in a desolate sort of way. Pale white beaches and craggy stretches of rock, the persistent sea a constant lullaby. His neighbor is a black and white striped lighthouse, sitting so near the lapping water that it seems inevitable that it will one day tumble into the sea. 

He considers leaving the clothes in his suitcase in case he changes his mind, but decides this as good a place as any to wait until he can return to duty. Carefully, he moves his folded clothing into the empty drawers in the small bedroom. There are clean sheets on the bed, and Tharkay wonders idlily if the place is always so ready for guests. There’s even some food in the freezer, though he’ll have to make his way into town for groceries. 

For the moment, he decides to walk along the beach, enjoying the feel of the cold air against his face even as it causes a twinge to his injured hands. He finds himself drawn toward the lighthouse, which seems more like a portrait than anything real—so much so that he’s surprised when a man appears from behind it and catches sight of him. The man waves and walks toward him.

Tharkay prefers his solitude, but cannot do anything that would be overtly rude. He owes Roland that, certainly. 

The man approaching him is tall, with blond hair swept back in a low ponytail, and glittering blue eyes. Quite attractive. In different circumstances—namely, properly working hands and not his boss’ neighbor—he might try to seduce such a man. But that would undoubtedly be unwise in any case.

“Hello there,” the man says, with a smile. “Are you staying at Susan’s place?”

“Yes, I’m a friend of hers. She’s offered to let me spend my vacation here.”

“William Laurence, at your service,” the man says charmingly. “Most people call me Laurence. I’m the park ranger for the lighthouse, and my son and I live here. Please don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything.”

He extends a hand, and Tharkay tamps down the urge to grimace, but extends his own in response, hoping Laurence’s handshake will be gentle. “Tenzing Tharkay, at yours.” It’s only through acute observation that he sees the emotions flash across Laurence’s face—realization that Tharkay is injured, guilt at having forced him into a handshake, resolve to hide the fact that he’s notice anything at all. Tharkay is grateful for his silence.

“A pleasure. Have you stocked up on groceries yet? I was about to head into town and would be happy to give you a lift there and back.”

Tharkay hesitates. He has no desire to make friends, but it would be quite convenient, especially in his current state, to not have to carry his groceries the mile back from town. “I’d be grateful, thank you.”

Laurence smiles warmly and beckons him toward the car. He actually opens the car door for him, so smoothly that Tharkay can almost believe it is mere politeness rather than consideration for his hands. It’s odd, really, that he has neither asked about them nor made it clear that he wants to. Most people are so terribly rude.

“It’s rare for our little island to get visitors,” Laurence says as they drive into town. “How long will you be staying?”

“A month,” Tharkay replies. “Susan has kindly given me leave to make use of her place for the duration.”

“Lovely. It’s uneventful, but quiet. There are some trails a bit to the north that are well worth visiting, if that’s something you enjoy.”

“It is,” Tharkay says.

They continue to discuss the island, and Laurence asks him about himself in an overly polite way, periodically apologizing if he’s overstepping with such inquiries. It’s honestly quite endearing. Tharkay keeps his answer vague, and Laurence does not press. He does let slip that he’s traveled quite a bit, prompting a few more polite questions.

When they arrive at the grocery store, they are almost instantly greeted by everyone inside. He is bemused by the way the locals address his companion. “Captain, is it?” he asks Laurence, a teasing glint in his eyes. A light blush colors the man’s cheeks.

The grocery store owner—Granby—laughs and supplies an explanation: “Laurence here is a retired navy captain.”

This is mildly interesting. Laurence looks far too young to retire—he can’t be more than mid-30s—but Tharkay doesn’t ask about it. He’s too busy trying not to get drawn into conversation with the people around him. He’s already met more people than he cares to: Granby, Harcourt and her daughter Lily, and a burly man named Berkley and his son Maximus. Berkley is currently admonishing the others: “You lot are going to drive the poor man out of town when he’s only just arrived.”

“We’re just being friendly,” Lily quips, “but apologies if we’ve disturbed you, Mr. Tharkay.”

“Not at all,” Tharkay replies, amused in spite of himself. It’s clearly a tight knit community, and Laurence seems to be at the center of it. 

“We’re having a party this weekend at our place—you should come,” Granby chimes in.

Tharkay wants to refuse, but catches sight of Laurence watching his reaction, and finds himself agreeing after all. 

When Laurence carries both of their grocery bags to the car, Tharkay does not protest. The man is so damnably kind in his actions but has not the slightest trace of pity in his expression. In fact, Laurence seemed to be _shielding_ his injury from the nosy grocery store crowd. It makes it easier than it should be to accept his help. 

He completely believes Laurence when the man asks him to come by anytime.

***

Tharkay knows he should not spend any more time with his handsome neighbor. But he finds his eyes too often drawn up the beach toward the lighthouse. He finds himself too often remembering the warmth in Laurence’s blue eyes. And honestly, spending too much time alone is more troubling than normal—his mind drifts back to the cave, his abused hands a constant reminder. _I am here. I am safe,_ he repeats. He’ll have to have another check-in with his CIA-appointed psychiatrist in a week; he needs to ensure he remains emotionally stable. 

A few days later he gives in, and walks the short distance toward the lighthouse, his mind having already zeroed in on an easy excuse for his actions: he does not have Laurence’s phone number, and intends to ask about those trails, after all. 

But it isn’t Laurence who opens the door. The child standing before him is—seven to nine? He’s not very good at guessing children’s ages. The child is also Asian, but with big blue eyes. Not the same color as Laurence’s, though. He recalls Laurence saying he has a son; if he had to guess, he’d say the boy is adopted.

“Oh, hello. Who are you?” the boy asks, peering at him curiously.

“Tharkay. Is Laurence here?”

“Yes, but he’s gone upstairs to the control center. Would you like to come in? I’m Temeraire.” _Far too trusting_ Tharkay thinks automatically, but he supposes there isn’t likely to be much in the way of crime on the island. The boy extends his hand and continues speaking before Tharkay can answer; Tharkay accepts the handshake and is grateful that Temeraire’s grip is gentle. “Are you Susan’s friend? The one staying in the cottage?”

“Yes, to all of your questions. You’re Laurence’s son?”

“Yes. Come in.” He follows Temeraire into a small but tidy kitchen; Temeraire’s curious eyes stay on him the whole time. “Dad said you’ve traveled a lot. Do you speak any other languages?”

“I speak seven,” Tharkay replies, feeling oddly flattered that Laurence has talked about him. 

“Do you speak Mandarin?” Temeraire asks him—in flawlessly pronounced Mandarin.

Tharkay blinks. Perhaps he spent the first few years of his life in China? “I do,” he responds in kind.

Temeraire begins to pepper him with questions about where he learned Chinese, what he does, where he’s from, why he’s here. Clearly the boy has none of his father’s restraint and politeness. And just as clearly, he’s extremely bright and well spoken.

“How old are you?” Tharkay finds himself asking curiously at some point.

“Eight,” Temeraire says proudly. 

They are interrupted by Laurence walking into the kitchen. “Mr. Tharkay, a pleasure to see you again.” 

“Just Tharkay will do,” Tharkay replies.

“Dad, he speaks Mandarin! What other languages do you speak? I forgot to ask!”

“My dear,” Laurence says with the deepest fondness. “It is impolite to interrogate our guest.”

“It’s all right. Aside from Mandarin and English, I speak French, Spanish, Portuguese, Nepalese, and Mongolian.”

Laurence looks impressed, as does Temeraire. “Amazing,” the boy says. “I only know French and Mandarin fluently, but I’ve started teaching myself Spanish and Japanese as well.”

“And you, Laurence?” Tharkay asks with an arched eyebrow.

Laurence’s expression turns slightly weary. “I try to keep up with Mandarin and French for Temeraire’s sake, but I’m afraid I don’t have any particular gift for languages.”

“I am sure you have other gifts,” Tharkay teases gently. 

Laurence offers him a cup of tea, and he finds himself feeling quite warm and comfortable with the two of them. His excuse is well-prepared, but he doesn’t need it, and when Laurence invites him to stay for dinner, Tharkay accepts without hesitation. “Temeraire, will you clear the table of your studies?”

“Yes, dad,” Temeraire says. Tharkay glances at the papers strewn across the table—and does a double take. He waits for Temeraire to collect them and leave the room before asking, “Is your eight-year-old studying calculus?”

Laurence actually blushes. “He’s quite precocious. I’m afraid I’m nowhere near smart enough for him.” He looks endearingly worried by this. “I have thought about us leaving the island, so he could be in a more advanced school, but he does so well studying on his own. And, well, there are other complications.” He does not elaborate on what these might be.

Tharkay sees no reason Temeraire needs a different arrangement, and it isn’t his business anyway. “How did you end up here?” he asks instead.

“Quite by accident. After I adopted Temeraire, I had to retire from the navy to look after him. I was looking for a position with the park service and the lighthouse keepers’ role here was available. I find I have quite fallen in love with this place, though it will be too small for Temeraire eventually. But…” He trails off, expression pensive.

Tharkay is left with more questions than answers, but doesn’t want to press. His love for Temeraire is clear, but it’s a bit strange that he threw away his career to become an adoptive father. And there’s something else, something he can’t quite put his finger on. He tells himself not to think too much on it—Laurence is not an assignment and does not need to be analyzed.

Over dinner, Tharkay talks about his travels—the things he can share of them, anyway—and finds himself completely charmed by Laurence and his unbelievably bright son. Perhaps Roland was right. Perhaps this is _exactly_ what he needs. 

After Laurence and Temeraire have cleared away the dishes of a delightful lasagna—disdaining Tharkay’s offers of aid—Temeraire asks, “Can Tharkay stay for the bedtime story?”

“He would be very welcome, but may have other matters to attend to other than listening to me read.”

“On the contrary, I’d be delighted.”

“Very well—so long as you are not going to make me embarrass myself by requesting the _Principia Mathematica._ ” This is directed at Temeraire.

Tharkay’s eyebrows disappear in his hairline in surprise.

“No, not tonight,” Temeraire says with a grin. “How about _Master and Commander?_ ”

“You do know the way to my heart, my dear.”

A few minutes later, the three of them are installed on the couch, Laurence reading aloud. Tharkay thinks that he could drift off to sleep listening to the man’s beautiful voice. Temeraire does fall asleep, and Laurence gently closes the book and then scoops him up to carry him to bed.

Tharkay wonders if he should leave, but decides to wait until he can say goodnight to Laurence. When Laurence returns, he gives Tharkay an absurdly beautiful smile. “Thank you for staying. You have quite delighted Temeraire.”

“And you?” Tharkay asks, dark eyes dancing with amusement.

“And me,” Laurence agrees softly, pausing for a moment before asking, “Would you like to go sailing tomorrow?” 

Tharkay blinks. It’s not quite the proposition he was hoping for, but he nods. Laurence’s company is such a pleasant diversion. He’d be a fool not to enjoy himself on his forced vacation. 

***  
Laurence’s boat—a 36 foot Beneteau, he explains, not that Tharkay would know the difference between this and any other boat—glides easily through the waves, the sun glinting off the sails. Laurence is perfectly capable of handling everything himself and does not ask Tharkay to do anything but relax, which Tharkay imagines is also a concession to his injury. 

Laurence himself looks downright joyful, standing at the wheel, eyes on the sea and the sails in turn. The wind catches his golden hair, pulling strands loose from his ponytail. Tharkay feels his breath catch. It seems Laurence is born to be at sea, and while Tharkay cannot deny the obvious love he feels for Temeraire, he wonders again what prompted the man to give up the navy life to become a single father in his mid-30s.

“That’s Shipwreck Point,” Laurence is saying, pointing toward a stretch of land that curves out into the sea. “There are quite a few wrecks out there. You’ll be able to see the remains of the _Queen Mary_ when we get a bit closer.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever been shipwrecked,” Tharkay muses.

Laurence looks embarrassed. “Never after becoming a captain.”

“And before that?”

“Only the once.”

“Really?” Tharkay asks, grinning. “Come, you can’t say such a thing and then not tell me the story.”

“It wasn’t a navy ship,” Laurence explains. “I was sailing with friends in the Caribbean. There was a storm, and they hit a reef. I did warn them… In any event, the ship went down, but we all made it safely to shore in the lifeboat. However, shore, in this case, was an utterly deserted strip of beach.”

“And then you were set upon by pirates?”

“Would you believe me if I said yes?”

“I think I’d believe anything you say, William Laurence.”

Laurence laughs. “No, no pirates. We’d got off a distress call and then coast guard rescued us a few hours later. No, my run in with pirates was on another occasion…”

Listening to Laurence’s stories, hearing his laugh, feeling the wind and the spray of the sea—something in Tharkay unclenches and relaxes for the first time in his long as he can remember. 

He is laughing openly by the time Laurence is guiding the boat back to its dock. He does not even mind the careful way Laurence helps him disembark. 

That night is the first in a long time that he does not dream of the cave. 

***

The party at Granby’s house begins with Temeraire holding court among the other children, who appear to hang on his every word. He cannot hear exactly what they’re saying, but it sounds as if Temeraire is assigning them all different species of dragons for a game. Across the room, Laurence is speaking with Harcourt, Granby, and Berkley. Tharkay makes his way over to join them.

“Mr. Tharkay! It’s good to see you again,” Berkley says, giving him a slightly too-hard slap on the back.

“How are you finding the island?” Harcourt asks him.

“It’s very beautiful,” he answers honestly. “Are you all from here?”

“Born and raised,” Berkley says proudly.

“Most of us are,” Granby chimes in. “It’s not as if it’s the type of place that people even know about, let alone choose to move to. Well, unless you’re Laurence of course.”

“It is to our benefit that not many people know of it. It’d quite ruin the place if were overrun by tourists. Though we are very pleased you could join us for a time, Tharkay.”

“Laurence, you seem _particularly_ pleased,” Granby teases in a low voice, and Laurence blushes.

“I’ll keep the place secret. You have my word,” Tharkay pledges, eyes glinting, and is rewarded with Laurence’s smile. He is really far too fond of it.

The night ends with Temeraire holding court among the adults. He seems just as at home there, and Tharkay marvels again that he is a most unusual child. 

Laurence offers to drive him home, and he agrees readily. It is a bit worrisome, really, how much he likes them both.


	2. The Storm

The storm has been building all day. Now it rattles the windows and seems to shake Tharkay to his very bones. It’s quite embarrassing to admit that fear is creeping up his spine. _It is absurd to be frightened by the weather,_ Tharkay tells himself. _I am here, on this perfectly uneventful island. I am in the now. I am safe._

And then the power goes out. Memories he wants desperately to forget come flooding back. Memories of a dark place he could not escape. Memories of pain, of his fingers being broken one by one. He needs light, needs it now. He scrambles toward his bag and the flashlight inside it—but trips and goes crashing to the floor, catching himself on his injured hand and hissing in pain at both the impact and the _sharpness._ He’s knocked over a lamp as well, and now he’s bleeding. “Fuck!” The panic is nearly overwhelming.

The light that cuts through the window is a welcome relief. He can hear someone shouting from outside, but the words are lost in the wind. He stumbles to the door and wrenches it open, revealing Laurence’s worried face. “Are you all…” Laurence doesn’t finish his question, eyes taking in Tharkay. Goodness, he must look a wreck. “Come, we have a generator at the lighthouse.” 

Laurence pulls off his rain jacket and wraps it around Tharkay, herding him to the car before Tharkay can even think to protest. The drive is very short, and then they’re inside the house attached to the lighthouse. It is warm, and well-lit, and Tharkay feels the panic drain out of him all at once.

This leaves him feeling quite embarrassed. Laurence is soaked—why the hell did Tharkay accept his rain jacket?—but Laurence does not seem to care. His attention is entirely fixated on Tharkay’s injured hands.

“Let me help you with that.”

“I’m fine,” Tharkay protests, despite it being an obvious falsehood.

Laurence gives him a reproving look. “Please. It would ease my mind.”

Tharkay doesn’t know how to argue, and merely holds out his hands. Laurence pulls out a first aid kit and expertly cleans and bandages the injuries. It hurts, but Laurence is gentle. He must have received first aid training in the Navy. And he was a Captain. It makes sense that he’d be calm under pressure.

“We’re in no danger,” Laurence is saying softly. “But the storms here can be quite alarming.”

Tharkay nods. “Is Temeraire frightened?”

Laurence opens his mouth to reply, then closes it again, as if thinking better of whatever he was about to say. “He doesn’t seem to have woken up, thankfully, or he would certainly have come demanding hot cocoa.” He smiles gently, examining his handiwork. “Would you like something for the pain? Or something hot to drink, perhaps?”

“No,” Tharkay says, a bit too quickly, but Laurence only nods in response. 

“I’ll show you to your room.”

Tharkay wants to protest that it is unnecessary for him to stay here, but what exactly is his plan, for Laurence to drive him back and get even more drenched? To sit alone with the dark and the terror? “Thank you, Laurence.”

“I would like it very much if you called me Will.”

“Will,” Tharaky breathes out, and flushes slightly at the twinge of emotion in his voice. “In that case, please call me Tenzing.”

“Tenzing,” Laurence echoes, pronouncing his name accurately and with care. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked me,” Tharkay says suddenly, and at Laurence’s confused face he clarifies: “about what happened to my hands. Not tonight—before.”

“You are welcome to share anything you wish with me, but I would not infringe on your privacy in such a manner,” Laurence replies easily.

And suddenly it hits Tharkay. That Laurence respects his privacy, he has no doubt, but Laurence also _knows_. He recognizes the signs of torture. He does not know the circumstances, but he already has some idea what Tharkay has endured. Tharkay doesn’t know what to do with this information. 

They sit in silence for another moment, and then Laurence says. “Come, let’s get you to bed.”

“Surely you should attend to your own state first.”

Laurence blinks in some confusion and then looks down at himself. “Ah.” He pulls off his shirt, and Tharkay’s throat goes dry. His emotions really are all over the place tonight, because what he’s experiencing now can be nothing but _lust_ at the sight of Laurence’s pale, muscled chest. His heart constricts a bit at the scars there, most notably what looks to be a stab wound toward the top of Laurence’s chest. He’s torn between desire and fury that someone has hurt Laurence in such a way. Both of these impulses are completely inappropriate, and he tears his eyes away.

Laurence pads out of the room. When he returns a few minutes later, things have not improved. Laurence is in a bathrobe. It’s a bit loose, still revealing much of his chest. Tharkay allows the man to lead him to a bedroom, where Laurence flicks on a light and glance around, as if assuring himself it’s fully equipped. 

“You have your own bathroom, through there. There are clean sheets on the bed, and a set of spare pajamas in the drawer.”

“Thank you.”

Laurence hesitates for a moment, and Tharkay feels an odd swell of hope.

“Will you let me help you out of your clothing?” For a split second, Tharkay thinks Laurence is propositioning him, but then he realizes what prompts the question. His hands are in terrible shape. He _should_ be annoyed at his helplessness, but it’s easy not to be when he’s instead annoyed for having momentarily misread the situation.

“Yes, thank you.”

Laurence steps closer and reaches for the buttons of his shirt. Laurence’s breath tickles across Tharkay’s forehead, and his heart thuds so loudly in his chest he’s sure the man must hear it. He actually lets his eyes drift closed and enjoys the feel of Laurence’s fingers brushing against his chest as he undoes the buttons, the glide of them over his shoulders as he helps him out of the shirt. It’s the first time he’s been able to wear a button down since his hands were injured—and of course will be the last until they heal again. He feels oddly grateful for it now.

And then Laurence’s hands drop to his belt. “This okay?” Laurence voice is hoarse. Tharkay’s eyes open to drink in the sight of him, and he’s sure of it now: this is affecting Laurence too. That sends his budding arousal up another notch, and goddamn his hands for being so useless right now. 

“Yes, Will,” he breathes out.

His hands don’t hurt at all, now. Every sense is completely focused on Laurence as the man undoes his pants and _fuck_ Laurence is actually lowering himself down to help him out of them, and it’s impossible not to let his mind go to what else he could be doing from that position. He swallows thickly and prays that the light is too dim for Laurence to notice just how much this is affecting him.

And then Laurence is turning away and folding his clothes before setting them on the dresser. “Shall I help you into some pajamas?”

Tharkay isn’t sure he can bear more touching unless it’s going to be a _lot_ more touching. If it weren’t for his damn hands, he’d make a move, but it would be incredibly awkward in his current state, even if Laurence wants this as much as he does. Still, he can’t help asking, “So eager to have me clothed again?”

Laurence’s eyes widen. “The heat is on, but it can get cold…” 

And then he sees it, Laurence’s eyes flickering down his body. Oh yes, Laurence is definitely feeling this as well. Tharkay arches an eyebrow and steps closer. “I’m not cold,” he says, the words coming out more seductively than even he intended.

Laurence appears pinned beneath his gaze, as if he can’t decide whether to jump him or flee.

Tharkay knows there are tons of reasons this is a terrible idea, but he can’t seem to help it. He steps into Laurence’s personal space, reveling at the hitch in Laurence’s breath and the fact that he doesn’t move away. “Will… Can I kiss you?”

“You’re injured…”

“I asked to kiss you, not fuck you,” Tharkay replies, and damn, he didn’t know the man could blush any harder. 

“In that case,” Laurence murmurs, and kisses him. The sun has left a slight roughness on Laurence’s lips over the softness below. His hand in Tharkay’s hair is gentle and grounding, and then there’s another hand, hot and firm against his back, and Laurence makes a soft sound of pleasure as they explore one another’s mouths. 

_Oh._ This is even better than he imagined it would be.

Laurence breaks the kiss, and rests his forehead against Tharkay’s. “I should let you rest.”

“Whatever you say, Will.”

Laurence kisses him again, briefly, and then gracefully flees the room.

***

The next morning there’s a stack of clothing outside his door, clothing he can easily get himself into—joggers, a pull over, and a set of boxers. Tharkay dresses and walks into the kitchen.

“Oh, but I promise to be very careful,” Temeraire is protesting, as Laurence is saying apologetically, “My dear, it is far too great a risk. We will have to wait until—” He pauses upon seeing Tharkay in the doorway, going slightly pale. “Good morning, Tenzing. How do you feel this morning? Will you take some breakfast?”

“Very well, thanks to you.”

That earns him one of Laurence’s warmer smiles. “The utility company says it will probably be a few days before the power is back. You’d be very welcome to stay with us in the interim.”

“I would not want to impose.”

“It’s no imposition at all.”

Temeraire looks delighted by this, and Tharkay forces himself not to sigh. “In that case, I must thank you yet again.”

After breakfast, Temeraire goes upstairs to study, and Tharkay and Laurence are left alone. Tharkay finds himself reliving the events of the night before, wishing that his hands were up to the task of pulling Laurence close. 

He settles for stealing a kiss while Laurence is leaning down to pick up his breakfast plate. Laurence’s hand moves to his cheek as he returns it, and Tharkay hears him sigh softly. As Laurence pulls away, Tharkay chases his lips, and Laurence lets himself be drawn back in, the kiss becoming heated. 

When they finally break apart, Laurence’s lips are wet and ever so slightly swollen. He looks devastatingly attractive and Tharkay wants to drag him straight to his bed. He settles for placing a hand carefully on Laurence’s shoulder, as if to prove to himself that they are not completely useless. 

Laurence’s eyes flicker to his hand, then his lips, then his eyes. “Tenzing,” he breathes out, struggles briefly to compose himself, then fully pulls away. “I have some errands to run this morning… I’ll see you this afternoon?”

“You will.”

***

The next few days are stolen kisses, walks on the beach, and delightful conversation. They are Laurence’s impressive cooking, and Temeraire’s endearing questions, and bedtime stories that delight all three of them. There is a contentment here that Tharkay can’t ever remember feeling. He doesn’t want the power at Roland’s to ever come back. He wants to live in this fantasy forever. 

On the third night, Laurence is kissing him heatedly in his bedroom, and there’s a wicked glint in his eyes when he asks, “Will you let me help you out of your clothing?” 

“Any damn time you please,” Tharkay answers, and then Laurence is laughing lightly as he gently guides his shirt over his head and then his pants down over his hips. 

“May I?” he whispers, fingers going to the edge of his boxers.

“Gods yes.” And then he’s standing before Laurence completely naked, and Laurence is looking at him like something precious and cherished, and it’s insanely sexy but also makes his heart tighten. God, he _wants_. He wants Laurence physically, of course, but he also just _wants_. Wants the peace and gentleness and warmth Laurence has brought into his life. “Can I convince you to get yourself undressed, too?”

“Yes,” Laurence says, and then he’s methodically removing his own clothing, and Tharkay’s eyes drink him in shamelessly. 

“You’re perfect,” Tharkay whispers, kissing him. His hands glide gently over the other man’s back, and he has to withhold the desire to grab him the way he really wants to. But he refuses to feel frustration at his hands. He refuses to feel anything but happiness that this is happening.

Laurence gently pushes him in the direction of the bed, and they crawl back on to it. Laurence kisses him soundly, until he is panting, and then kisses his way reverently down Tharkay’s body, his lips and teeth and tongue driving little moans from Tharkay’s lips. He wants to throw his head back and let his eyes close, but the sight of Laurence nuzzling at the base of his cock is too beautiful. He is spellbound.

Laurence licks a stripe up the underside and his breath stutters, and then his lips are wrapping around him and the world is reduced to wet, warm heat. He spares half a thought for Laurence’s skill—a jealous thought that he casts away. The past doesn’t matter. The future doesn’t matter. All that matters is the way Laurence swirls his tongue over the head, the way he sucks and hums with his mouth and twists his hand. It feels much too good for Tharkay to last long.

“Will,” he whispers. “C-close.”

Laurence increases his speed, and Tharkay lets go, crying out and arching his back as he spills into Laurence’s mouth. Laurence holds and sucks him through it, finally pulling away and pressing a final gentle kiss to the head. He crawls up to lie beside Tharkay, kisses his nose.

“Will you let me take care of you now?” Tharkay asks, cupping his cheek with one palm.

“You’re sure?” Laurence asks. 

“Such a gentleman,” Tharkay whispers, kissing Laurence’s lips and using one hand to encourage him to lie back. “I want this. I’ve wanted this since I first saw you.”

How can Laurence’s smile still make him feel like this when he’s just had a mind-blowing orgasm? 

He shifts, kissing Laurence soundly before moving downward until he can take Laurence’s cock in his mouth. The sharp intake of breath is music to his ears as he works over the length. It’s a bit awkward, not being able to use his hands, but soon he gets into a rhythm. He can feel the minute thrust of Laurence’s hips as the other man tries to hold back, and places one hand gently on his hip, encouraging him to move. 

Laurence moans softly and puts his hand on Tharkay’s cheek, a warning, but Tharkay doesn’t stop until Laurence is coming. 

***  
The next morning, he makes his way toward the kitchen, pausing when he hears hushed voices.

“You truly like Tharkay,” he hears Temeraire say.

Tharkay knows he should not listen in, but, well, some habits die hard. 

“I do,” Laurence answers, and there is a note of something like longing and like misery in his voice that makes Tharkay’s heart ache.

“Then we can wait a while longer.” 

“I am sorry, Temeraire.”

“I’m not. I like seeing you so happy. And I know how it worries you, every time.”

“Thank you, my dear.” There is resignation in Laurence’s voice that Tharkay does not understand.

“Let’s go for a walk then! It’s beautiful outside.” It sounds like Temeraire is trying to cheer Laurence up. 

“Of course—I’ll just leave Tharkay a brief note.”

Tharkay knows he could accompany them if he made his presence known, but he holds back until he hears the door closed. He then steps into the kitchen and sits, their conversation replaying his mind. A part of him wants to disregard it entirely, as there are any number of innocent explanations. Perhaps there is simply some activity Temeraire enjoys that would not be feasible with Tharkay present. 

But his suspicious nature—and his profession—do not quite allow him to. There was something in Laurence’s voice, something in the occasional fear that crosses his face, when Laurence does not seem the type to be afraid of anything. Laurence is hiding _something,_ he realizes, trying to hold in a sigh. He does not want to let go of the nearly delirious dream he’s fallen into here. Perhaps it is nothing of any real consequence? 

As he mulls this over, a cell phone rings. He looks around and sees Laurence’s cell phone on the kitchen counter. It displays the name of the caller, and Tharkay’s blood runs cold: _Jane Roland._ A name that no one on the island is supposed to know.

He stares for a moment, and then answers the phone.


End file.
